


Unlike Kind

by Code16



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Boot Kissing, Caning (mentioned), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Manhandling, Physical Abuse, Post-Rescue from Thangorodrim, Punishment, Sexual Assault, Tumblr Prompt, dark!fingon, self victim blaming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 13:43:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15025910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: "It is an inexcusable mistake. He knows Fingon’s hands as he knows Fingon’s voice, knows the touch of his body, knows how unthinkable it should be to draw connection, any, between his dark tormentors and his rescuer to whom he owes all."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter originally written on my tumblr as a prompt [off a prompt list](http://rp-memes-atyourservice.tumblr.com/post/175040667463/manhandling-symbol-starters).
>
>> Anonymous asked: Ohh, I would love to see “♞ - physically pick my muse up and carry them,” possibly also with the slamming into a wall one? With Mae and any aggressor of your choice, that would be amazing.

It is a _stupid_ mistake. 

“Come to the bedroom with me, love?” he hears behind him, and he _knows_ Fingon’s voice when he hears it, and it is not of course as though anyone else in the camp would call him ‘love’. But he has been studying this map and these documents for what seems hours, absorbed as he attempted to reconcile them, and - “in a minute” - comes out of him as what must be automatic response, reaction somewhere below thought. And, before he has _time_ for thought, hands are suddenly on him, he is physically lifted up, held as though even all the weight he has recovered back from Angband matters little at all, and being moved, carried away from the table - 

It is an _inexcusable_  mistake. He _knows_ Fingon’s hands as he knows Fingon’s voice, knows the touch of his body, knows how unthinkable it should be to draw connection, any, between his dark tormentors and his rescuer to whom he owes all. But at the feel of the hands on him, the air under him, he still does not _think_ , he still does not act rightly though it is his second chance in less than minutes. He feels them, and suddenly all that his mind and body produces is blind response, and he struggles, fights, fights to be free, to be put down again - 

He is put down. Almost dropped, really, the same hands all that keeps him on his feet. For a moment, before he is shoved into the wall, slammed against stone, his face ground into it by a grip suddenly in his hair.

And _now_ he thinks. Now he puts voice and words and hands together, and it is _stupid_ , it is _inexcusable -_ “I’m sorry -I’m so sorry - please.” The grip takes him back from the wall only to slam him forward again, the breath forced out of his lungs cutting of his words. 

“I should have known,” the voice says, in his ear now. “that your promises still meant nothing to you. That ‘anything’ might as well mean ‘nothing’ when Maedhros Feanorian says it.” He tries to shake his head and can’t do it, cheek still ground into the stone.

“No, no - I meant, it, I swear, I mean it, it was a mistake, I’m sorry, I _swear -_ ”

His legs are kicked farther apart, Fingon’s grip still keeping him from falling.

“You are very fortunate that I am feeling too merciful today to take you right here.” The hand leaves his hair so another can press between his legs, and he can’t hold back a whimper - he is sore today, from Fingon’s lesson the night before. A lesson, it seems, he has forgotten far too quickly. “Remind you you’re _mine_  in the room where _you_  sat at a table with _our_  scrolls while _we_ walked across the Ice.” The hand is in his hair again, and he tries to nod and succeeds at it, scraping his cheek and a painful tug on his scalp but - 

“Yes. Please, I’m sorry, yes, Fingon, my lord prince, I will never deserve you, I will never deserve your forgiveness, I’m sorry, I’m yours, I’ll always be yours -” (He has been called eloquent by many - in Valinor and even since, heir to his father in rhetoric, in conferences and speeches and formal ceremonies. He does not find himself eloquent here.)

He breathes as the unforgiving grip loosens by a fraction. “Perhaps something can still be made of you.” He starts to nod again - “Yes -” only to feel it tighten harder than before, to be slammed forward yet again.

“Don’t talk. You are not going to say one more word to me until we are in _my_  bedroom, and then you are going to kiss my shoes and suggest to me what punishment is appropriate for your behavior today. Perhaps that and a night of kneeling by my bed and thinking on your loyalty will teach you not to forget it.” 

He does not, this time, forget. He nods in silence when the grip releases him, does not turn from the wall until a hard push in a new direction lets him know he has been given leave. He turns in time to see Fingon stride out of the room without another look at him.

He straightens his robes and smooths his hair - there may be others in the hall, and not all might understand his duty, as he does.

He follows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [on my tumblr](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com/post/175156154249/well-darkfingon-promptfic-now-has-a-sequel).

Thinking of punishments is a task he has not always fulfilled correctly. Sometimes he overshoots, and then Fingon has to reprimand him for that too - “Do you think me like Morgoth, cousin?” (And that would be wrong beyond thinking of course - he is the disloyal one, the betrayer. Fingon has suffered because of him, Fingon has rescued him, Fingon takes nothing from him but what he is rightfully due.)

And - rarely, the depth of his guilt he is determined to not forget - but on occasion he undershoots, and - “perhaps you don’t take this seriously at all. Perhaps you don’t care to try.”

It is his failing, he is well aware - he is a Noldo, clever and creative, should be able to produce what is needed. But still he has failed.

 

“For not acknowledging you as I ought,” he says, the taste of Fingon’s shoes on his tongue a present reminder. “If I were to receive sixty strokes of a cane, one for every second of a minute, that might remind me to be attentive to you as I should be.

For struggling against you, if you were to hold me down and take me, so that it hurt, while I stayed still and never fought your hold. And thanked you after. That might remind me of how I should remember you, and behave toward you.”

(In the silence he finds it difficult not to look up for some hint from Fingon’s expression, finds it difficult not to flinch and shiver. Keeps eyes on Fingon’s shoes; keeps himself still. He knows how it is right for him to act. He will not make the same mistakes, not now.)

“Kiss my shoes again.” He does. Is grateful to do it, for a way to show the contrition he has, that he means his promise now, that the self-centered pride Fingon correctly sees in him has not put him beyond hope, that he does, will try. Knows how fortunate he is for every contact Fingon might allow him. “Alright. Perhaps you truly are sorry, this time. Get up, and take your robes up. I will cane you tonight, before I have you, and again in the morning. And you can tell me if I have made it memorable enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> As I noted before, most of my Silm work has been being posted under [the account Ladoga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/Ladoga). But this one was basically entirely off tumblr things, and this is the account I generally link to that, so figured I'd put it here.
> 
> (On that note): [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


End file.
